Born a monarch with no crown Here I am to reclaim my rights Watch me command the thousand-head-crowd In the glare of bright lights A throne for hundred sages It works its magic on the hungry ones Time freezes on the voice command Of the next magus entering the stage Slaves of Illusion Playing the game of awe Slaves to mirrors Trapped in the purgatory of ego Slaves! Ready to enlive his own decease To fill the audience pit Bleeding real drops, swallowing sweat And working every wrinkle crease Artisan among masters Unable to shrug his costume off Grown into his mask with flesh The spectator of his own act Illusion arcana apprentice Hunched behind the set He vanishes into lethargic oblivion Till the next curtain-up call As magus major Entrapped in servant's role Performing his mute swansong To the careless crowd I'm enliving the ravish of soul Each time I enter the stage Trading the new mould Shaped of sweat and sleepless nights [Polish:] Zwierciadło Świata Urodzony kr